


close my eyes and take it in

by freakedelic



Category: DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail (mild), Cameos from some members of The Light, Canon is fake, Degradation, Derealization, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Facials, Forced Orgasm, Homophobia, Humiliation, M/M, POV Outsider, Past Underage, Slurs, slade can't keep his mouth shut and is a gross old man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25557487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Slade Wilson likes to brag about his conquests. Nightwing is his proudest.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 315





	1. someone call the ambulance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> this is for quil, who wanted something with kaldur hearing slade talk about raping dick. like. . . the WORST kind of outsiders' pov. writing this made me want to write kaldur/black manta, so stay tuned for that maybe ? ?
> 
> chapter titles are from "infra-red" by placebo. fic title is from "bleeding out" by imagine dragons.

The bar isn’t too loud. The light shines off the pale hair of the two men sitting by the window. Someone waves them over, David sliding into the booth on the other end.

Kaldur recognizes Deathstroke—Wilson—and Sportsmaster—Crock—sitting on the other side. They look remarkably normal for people who work for the Light, nothing like how they were outlined when they’d met. Without their suits and masks, Crock and Wilson look almost like normal men looking to get something to eat, instead of murderers.

You could walk past them and never know. Never know how Crock treats his children, how David kills without compunction, and how Wilson is one of the most dangerous men in the world.

“Manta!” Crock waves him over. Wilson leans back in his chair, face buried in the menu. David sits down.

Kaldur takes the time to note the tension. Comrades they may be, but rivalry is rife. Those weak bonds are easy to lean on when he needs to, if he learns how they work. Coming was a good idea. This is more a place to figure out what the other is up to, than any kind of friendship.

Crock immediately orders one of their cheapest beers. Wilson orders two full meals before he puts down the menu, taking all of them in.

“Didn’t know you had a kid, David.” Wilson’s one eye sweeps over Kaldur. He’s a more dangerous foe than Sportsmaster. Kaldur tries to shake the feeling that the man knows too much.

“I thought I’d lost him.” David smiles, too easy. He runs a hand down Kaldur’s forearm. “Turns out he came back.”

Wilson just tilts his head. Kaldur decides almost instantly that he is the most dangerous person in this bar.

Crock snorts. “Kids are more trouble than they’re worth. I tried to train the little brats, but it only took half the time. Fucking useless little . . . “ he trails off into his beer.

Kaldur thinks of Artemis’s face when she sees her father. He thinks of how she never speaks of her childhood, and he feels a terrible kind of fury in his gut. He boxes it away before it can show, putting it in the place where he keeps his affection for his friends and his loyalty to Atlantis.

Wilson has children, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he digs into the plates that are set down before him like a man starved. David sips his wine. “Maybe _yours_ are, Crock. My son is a valuable asset to us. He knows the enemy better than anyone.”

“Because he used to _be_ the enemy.”

David narrows his eyes. “Loyalties change.”

“That just means I’m better equipped to fight them,” Kaldur says. “And I know why they’re _wrong_.”

“Sure.” Crock snorts. “Like we need your help to kick the asses of a bunch of whiny kids.”

“I remember you having trouble with the Martian and with Batman’s brat,” David tells him stiffly. “How many fractures was it? Six?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Crock says, leaning across the table to get nearer to David’s face.

Kaldur sees a chance to de-escalate, taking it without hesitation. It’s what he’s familiar with—at least when he used to be the leader of the Team.

“Nightwing would cause anyone at least a few problems. He’s one of the more dangerous members of the League’s team. But I know how to win against him.”

Slade smirks. He’s done twirling spaghetti around the fork and into his mouth, looking up. “Nightwing’s not so tough.”

“How many fucking times have you tried to off him?” Crock demands. “And yet he’s still running around electrocuting people with those goddamn fucking sticks of his.”

_Escrima_ , Kaldur silently thinks.

“If I was trying to kill him,” Slade says simply, “he’d be dead. That would be a waste.”

Kaldur’s heard some of Deathstroke’s rivalry with Nightwing. Dick doesn’t talk about it, but sometimes Tim brings up that they hate each other, or Dick goes a little too silent at his name.

“Sure he would be,” David mocks. Kaldur thanks the server for his drink under his breath as his father continues. “And Aquaman would be dead if I _really_ wanted him offed.”

Wilson gives him a pitying look that sets all of Kaldur’s nerves on edge. “You’ve never pinned him down and heard him _beg_ you to stop like a little bird. He doesn’t have many smartass things to say when you split him open.”

Kaldur stares. David looks down at his plate, as if he can ignore Wilson in the shrimp. Crock just stares, beer halfway to his mouth.

Wilson’s eye finds Kaldur’ahm’s. It’s the same color as the most dangerous part of the ocean. Kaldur can almost see the currents waiting to dash him against the rocks. “You can’t tell me you’ve never noticed what a pretty face he is. Even prettier when he’s in the dirt and squirming and getting blood on your _cock_.” His voice is as casual as always, but his eye digs in like claws.

If Kaldur had light skin, he might pale. Instead, all he can do is process. Dick had _never_ mentioned this. Is Wilson lying? He might be. The words ring in his ears. The alcohol on his tongue tastes ashy.

The nausea in his gut makes him glad he didn’t order any food.

“Nobody needs to hear this,” David says weakly.

Wilson smirks. “So you’ve never wanted to pin him down and fuck him ‘til he screams? Never wanted to see how tight that ass _really_ is? Because it’s _tight_. Been tight since he was a kid.” His eye has a cruel intensity to it.

David’s face looks like he wants to say _No, I never have_. Kaldur bites back more nausea. Wilson isn’t lying. He’s sitting there, bragging about raping one of Kaldur’s closest friends, staring him right in the eye, and Kaldur—

Has to sit here.

He buries his face in the margarita, tasting salt on his tongue and trying to resist biting down on the tinted glass.

 _Since he was a kid_.

“Bullshit,” Crock says incredulously, but he sounds more awed than anything else.

“I wouldn’t be saying it if it wasn’t true,” Wilson says almost smug. “He even gets off on it, too. Comes all over his suit like a whore.”

“So Nightwing’s a fucking faggot,” Crock says slowly. “I’ll be damned.”

The margarita is gone now. Something is growing in Kaldur’s gut—disgust, and horror, winding up into his throat and burning more than the salt does.

With a monumental force of will, he says nothing. He does nothing. His face is wiped clean. _How many times has Wilson done this? Since when?_

_Dick had said nothing at all._

_Never even a_ hint _—had they missed a hint?_

“I’m sure your son knew that already, Manta,” Wilson says, and all eyes turn to Kaldur. He opens his mouth, putting down his glass.

Somehow the words come out. Awkward but acceptable. Enough to keep him alive.

“I wasn’t aware of the . . . details . . . of your relationship with Nightwing,” Kaldur forces out.

“Well, did you know he was a fag?” Crock demands. He doesn’t seem to be poking and prodding him like Wilson does.

Telling them that _he’s_ a fag doesn’t seem like it would go over particularly well. Instead, Kaldur settles for shrugging. It seems like the best he can do, now. _I_ did _know he was a fag, but I_ didn’t _know that Wilson was a fucking rapist pedophile._

“I mean,” David starts, “it’s not like it’s . . . surprising.”

Kaldur stares at his hands. They—they aren’t shaking, are they? They look like they might be, and he wonders if it’s unusual. He can’t let anything slip past them.

That means death.

The thought _really_ doesn’t help his shaking hands.

Voices fade a little.

Some part of Kaldur berates himself for being surprised. He knew going in that Wilson, Crock and David were terrible people. But this . . .

Dick had told him to prepare for _anything_. Had Dick known? Had he even _suspected_ that this is what they would do and say?

How long has this been happening? For how many years has Dick kept his silence _since he was a child_.  
Kaldur has never wanted to excuse himself from a table full of drunk murderers _more_. Except that would be too suspicious. All he can do when Wilson has _just admitted_ to the _rape_ of one of his _best friends_ is . . . sit. Sit and wait for all to be over, plastering his face with something neutral and forcing it to sit as still as it can.

They all get up at the end of the night. Kaldur sways slightly, a little for show but mostly because he is _not_ used to human alcohol, not yet. David grabs his elbow, leaning in and pulling him close.

“Careful,” he says. Kaldur wonders why he didn’t inherit his _father’s_ genes for alcohol tolerance. That would’ve made him too lucky, probably.

Wilson smiles as he leaves, all teeth. It doesn’t feel like a smile. It feels like a predator’s declaration of war, all sharpness and cruelty; Kaldur has never hated anyone more in his entire life.


	2. cuz there's gonna be an accident

Dick is only partly there when he hears the creaking of the window. It’s been a long day—he shares Bludhaven responsibilities with Red Robin sometimes, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t grueling on top of the missions he has with the Team. The gangs here are almost as bad as back in Gotham. The rot is almost as deep. It feels like it radiates out from Gotham City like the ripples of a stone dropped into a pond, and these waves threaten to bowl him over.

It’s a sound he’s used to. Dick is on his feet in seconds, grabbing sightlessly for his escrima. The grip is rough and familiar in his hand as he crouches, casting his eyes around his apartment for anything out of the ordinary.

The large, dark shape that swings up from the edge of the window is unfortunately not out of the ordinary. It lands with a surprisingly soft _thump_ on Dick’s thin carpet, moonlight not properly illuminating. Dick doesn’t need it, though.

“What the fuck do you want?” he demands.

“Good evening to you too,” Deathstroke says. He pulls off his mask, revealing a cold eye as he brushes past Dick to go to the couch. There’s a loud groan as the springs try to take the weight of Slade and his armor. Dick winces.

“You see in the dark now?” Slade mutters. A lamp clicks on. Deathstroke sits on his couch. Dick feels a low, plunging sensation in his gut. The edges of reality seem to fuzz, just a little, as if he were slightly tipsy.

He doesn’t want to deal with this. Dick is _tired._ He doesn’t want to fight Slade, he doesn’t want to _feel_ this, he doesn’t want _any_ of it.

“Please go away,” Dick says tiredly, turning to face the intruder.

Slade leans his sword up against the coffee table. “You know I will when I get what I want.”

“Maybe I just want you to fuck off,” Dick mutters. There’s an instinctive impulse to wince after swearing at Slade, but he pushes it away with disgust.

“I believe we’ve established that it hurts much less when you don’t press me,” Slade says. It’s a simple statement of fact, not uttered in the tones Slade reserves for threats.

Dick could go to bed with bruises and sprained fingers _and_ an aching ass, or he could go to bed with just an aching ass.

_Nobody has to know you didn’t play out the fight_ , he tells himself. _It’ll just end the same way. It’s just skipping the pain_.

His tongue traces over his lips. He can just lay there. Let Slade use him. It’s easy and it’s simple. He’s done it so, so many times before.

How fast could he make Slade come, if he tried?

The thought makes him so violently nauseous that he throws it out instantly. Reality fuzzes at the edges even more.

_This is happening_.

Slade watches him with his one eye. He’d known this would be the end result all along, probably.

“Bastard,” Dick says.

“Well, of course,” Slade replies, as Dick knew that he would. His legs move towards him, feet coming to rest in front of Slade on the couch. Slade looks up at him, no less smug and in control from the lower position. He smiles. “Good boy, Grayson.”

Dick glares at him.

“On your knees.”

The floor hurts less with the kneepads of his suit. Some small part of his mind yells at himself for letting Slade do this to him.

_I’m so tired. I just want to sleep._

There’s a soft sound of Slade’s hand on his crotch, unzipping himself. _Did you really build a hole_ just _for that into your suit?_ Dick had mocked, once.

_Just for you,_ Slade had teased.

Slade’s cock is soft, but Dick can still see it in his briefs. He’ll be forced to deepthroat. Like he’s been doing since he was fifteen. It’s easier now, even if Slade hasn’t gotten any smaller.

Dick closes his eyes and opens his mouth. He hears Slade laugh softly.

“You look like a little bird begging for food.”

Dick wants to say something about how weird and fucked up a comparison that is, but Slade’s cockhead presses its way inside before he can. It tastes like Slade. Dick hates that it’s a taste he knows well enough to classify. He hates everything about this, from halfway inhaling Slade’s pubes to the cock pushing against the back of his throat.

This is the kind-of easy part. He can try to breathe in-between Slade’s thrusts, sucking air in during the small second before Slade slides back down his throat and his balls slap against his chin. Dick swallows, wet noises filling the room, doing his best not to gag or choke on Slade’s length.

It’s still thicker than anyone else’s dick he’s ever had in his mouth. That never changes.

Familiarity.

The wet noises make his living room fuzz at the edges.

“ _Fuck_ , I wish they could all see you right now.” Slade punctuates with a particularly brutal thrust that rocks Dick’s body. “Kneeling right at my feet and taking my cock.”

Dick glares, choking a little. Slade grins down at him. One hand tightens in his hair, pulling him forward. He’s mashed against Slade’s cock, losing himself in the sensation of his throat being abused. If he just relaxes, it will be over.

_It will be over_.

This time, Slade finishes with a low groan. Dick doesn’t taste anything, his eyes squinting open in surprise when he feels Slade’s cock leave his mouth.

Slade’s thick fingers jerk himself off. Dick realizes what’s happening seconds before it does, with just enough presence of mind to turn his face to the side and press his lips together before the first bit of Slade’s come lands on his cheek.

The hand on his head doesn’t let him move, Dick resisting with all his strength as Slade empties his balls onto his face. It’s warm, sticky and _filthy_. He only opens his eyes again when he’s sure that it’s over, met with Slade’s soft cock in front of him.

“I think they’d just love to see you like this,” Slade murmurs. He grabs Dick’s chin, tilting his head as Dick tries to pull back. “I know I do.”

“Great,” Dick says. There’s jizz on his lips. He tastes it, wiping it off with the back of his hand with a disgusted expression. “Are you d—”

“No.” Slade smiles. He’s hard again.

_Fucking metahuman refractory period_. It’s like something out of a porno. But for Dick, it’s always been a nightmare. He tries hazily to scramble back, but Slade is on him. There’s a _crack_ when his head slams against the floor of his apartment. Slade straddles his hips, arms boxing him in on both sides.

“I told you it’s easier when you obey me,” Slade teases. “Wouldn’t want to wake the neighbors, would we?”

Dick looks up at him through stars. He feels impotent, defeated. Something trickles down his forehead. Probably more of Slade’s fucking jizz.

“You know, your little spy showed up,” Slade says dangerously. 

Dick’s eyes go wide, fixed on the shape far above him. His body is utterly frozen. That’s a giveaway. He should’ve pretended he hadn’t known. Kaldur hadn’t said anything. Had he been grabbed before he could?

_Is he already gone?_

“Don’t worry, birdie,” Slade murmurs. He’s pushing his hand up Dick’s back, grabbing for the zipper of his suit. Dick winces as he hears it unzip. Slade’s cock is still out, still hard, still pressed against his own armor. “I didn’t sing.” His fingers dig thoughtfully into Dick’s thigh as he presses him high enough to reveal his crack.

The relief that moves through Dick is ecstatic. The long, low sigh he lets out is enough of an answer to Slade.

“Frankly,” Slade says, “I don’t believe you’ve _ever_ had much gratitude, kid. Not to your Daddy and not to me. But this is one thing you’re grateful for, aren’t you?”

His eye gleams.

Dick’s eyes flutter closed. He’s so fucking tired.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Kaldur is alive.

The relief is undercut by two of Slade’s gloved fingers jamming their way inside him. It _hurts_ —but not as much as it had last time, where Slade had fucked himself inside whole and dry.

“There’s lube in the top nightstand drawer,” he mutters.

“Sorry, kid, I just don’t trust you enough to not try to fly away.” Slade’s fingers scissor. Dick wonders if it’s too much to hope for that it doesn’t bleed like last time. He makes a note to keep the lube next to the window.

Slade could’ve told on Kaldur. But he didn’t. Dick tries to think as Slade’s fingers jam into his prostate. Instead, he lets out a small gasp.

Slade doesn’t say anything, but he smiles.

_Is he on the Light’s side? Does he really want them to win? What’s his endgame—_

A third finger is added. It hurts. Dick lets out another groan.

The noises make Slade happy, but Dick is tired. Too tired to bitterly hold them back.

“I told him what a slut you are,” Slade murmurs. Dick’s eyes go wide. Slade’s fingers slip out, the head of his cock prodding against Dick’s entrance.

“You . . .”

The ever-brutal stretch starts as Slade pushes his way in. Dick breathes in and out to control the pain. He’s felt worse. This really isn’t so bad.

“They were all asking about what a _hero_ Nightwing was,” Slade purrs. His fingers dig into Dick’s thigh. “I just told them the truth: that you’re not so scary when you’re taking me _balls deep_.” He punctuates the words with a thrust that sheathes him fully inside Dick’s ass.

Dick lets out a pained groan. His leg bends back as Slade leans forward. _How many people had he told? What had he told them—do they all_ know—

“Slade—”

He loses his breath again as Slade drags himself almost totally out of him before snapping his hips, Dick filled up again with his cock. It drags past somewhere that almost feels good. Slade can’t be doing that on purpose.

“Maybe I should bring them proof,” Slade grunts. He thrusts again, Dick pushed against the thin carpet. “Give them a picture of your face right now. _Hh_. Red and covered—in my—spunk.”

“Fuck you,” Dick pants, but it sounds more like a plea. Slade’s pace is machine-like, hips moving with a neverending rhythm as he systematically takes what he wants from Dick’s body.

“You don’t think your—teammates—deserve to know—what an easy _slut_ —their leader is?” The head of his cock drags past Dick’s prostate. He adjusts _just_ enough to hit it even _more_.

“Shut up,” Dick growls. “Shut—up— _ah_ —”

“Fucking— _whore_ —”

Dick isn’t sure if Slade is just saying things to get himself off now. He has trouble replying, Slade’s cock still hitting his prostate with every thrust. His cock is hard. When did he get hard?

Every thrust leaves him gasping for breath, staring up at his blurry ceiling. He must be bleeding. Maybe if he focuses on that it won’t _feel good_ , but his body is so _used_ to Slade’s cock—

It really is a losing battle. He tries to think about his friends but every line of thought is dashed against the rocks of Slade fucking him harder than anyone else could. His hips snap with inhuman strength. This has happened so many times that Dick is almost surprised at how deep he moves in him, in how little he gets tired.

It’s a dizzy, half-there experience until Slade buries himself deep in Dick’s ass and comes with a long, satisfied grunt.

Dick pants, eyes lidded, collecting his thoughts.

_Eat shit, Slade._

He weakly pushes against Slade’s chest. Slade laughs, still buried to the hilt in him, still stretching him open.

“You’re done,” Dick insists weakly. He can feel Slade’s come pooling around the head of the man’s cock, inside him, hot and viscous.

Slade’s hand wraps firmly around Dick’s cock. “But you’re not.”

Dick tries to sit up, pushing hard at him. Slade slams him down with his other hand. Dick’s head _throbs_. His vision goes double for a few seconds.

Back when he was an apprentice, Slade had controlled every bit of him. _You getting off on this, kid? Well, we can’t have that, can we?_

Now, he’s Nightwing. Now, he has something real to lose. Now, Slade just wants to press salt in the wound.

“Fuck off,” Dick hisses. He wants to say more but he can’t, because Slade is dragging his finger of the head of his cock and slowly moving his hand. He laughs.

His hand moves down, playing with Dick’s balls. He thrusts a little, into the seed he’s already spilled in him. It makes a wet noise, and worse, makes Dick’s cock harder. He’s almost starting to _want_ it and that’s _dangerous_

“That’s right,” Slade says. “You’re going to come all over your suit for me, aren’t you, Boy Wonder?”

Dick wants to respond but Slade is rubbing the head of his cock again. How did Slade find out where his prostate was? He never seemed to give a shit before. But now it’s damning him as he tries not to buck in Slade’s hands.

Slade doesn’t even have to ask _if Bruce could see you now_ , because Dick is thinking it. It’s a thought that even Slade’s forced and humiliating pleasure is better than.

It takes a shamefully short time before Dick arches into Slade’s fingers. Slade doesn’t ruin his orgasm but it feels flat anyways. Something pulled out of him roughly.

Fingers covered in something sticky touch his forehead. It takes Dick a few seconds to realize that Slade is smearing Dick’s come on top of his own. The second he does he jerks away, growling with his lips closed tight.

“Ungrateful,” Slade mutters. Seconds later Dick’s face is assaulted as Slade digs nails into his gums, dragging his mouth open so that he can shove long fingers down his throat. Dick can taste his own come, choking, glaring up at Slade.

“Good little bird,” Slade murmurs. “Take what you’re fed.”

His fingers come out after a few agonizing seconds, smearing saliva on Dick’s chin. Dick gives a wet cough. Slade wipes his fingers off on Dick’s suit.

“Fuck you,” he says, voice rough from being choked with Slade’s cock, and then his fingers.

“So eager for another round,” Slade comments. Dick shuts his mouth, swallowing. “But I can’t spend all my time on you, kid.”

Finally, his cock comes out. His seed comes out with it, smearing the inside of Dick’s thighs and making him feel like filth. Some part of him wants to pull his suit back on, but he doesn’t feel there’s any dignity left to salvage. He just watches blankly as Slade wipes his cock off with Dick’s blanket and tucks himself back in.

Slade picks his sword up from where he’d left it before going to the window. “Another time, Grayson.”

Dick’s eyes shut.

Five minutes later, he manages to drag himself halfway across the room to the couch, picking up the blanket on the way. Numb fingers fumble with the lamp, casting the whole apartment in pitch blackness.

Dick crashes onto the couch and falls into a dead sleep almost as soon as his head hits the cushion.

* * *

Dick’s hugs are always a little stiff and awkward, but Kaldur takes it in stride. He’s the only one of the bats who _will_ hug, anyways. Dick looks tired, as always, but his smile is genuine.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he says. _I’d rather I didn’t have to send you back in there_ , his eyes say.

Kaldur’ahm nods. “I’m gaining access to their . . . bonds of camaraderie, I think.”

“They have those?”

Kaldur shrugs. “To some extent. They’ve all worked together a while, they’re very familiar. Not to say that they all aren’t willing to kill each other, of course.”

Dick nods. “Of course. Did you learn anything new?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know. This is just the beginning. But it’s going well. I’m putting myself in a place to become trusted. And David already is on my side.”

“David?”

Kaldur glances down. He feels a kind of shame he can’t pinpoint. “Black Manta, I mean. He’s sometimes called David.”

“Well, at least you learned that.” Dick sighs. He looks wrung-out. Kaldur stares past him, again wondering if he should say anything at all.

“Are you familiar with Deathstroke?”

Dick looks at him oddly. “Like, do I know of him?”

Kaldur shakes his head, reconsidering. “He . . . said some things. About you.”

Dick goes still.

Even for a Bat trained in stealth, he goes still.

Kaldur’s heart sinks.

It could’ve been a boast, a lie. Something made up to get under Kaldur’s skin. But the way Dick reacts . . .?

“What did he say?” Dick asks. He sounds defeated.

Kaldur doesn’t know that he’s able to repeat it. “. . . A lot of things.”

He knows from Dick’s look that he knows what they are.

“Dick—”

“I’m fine,” Dick says stiffly.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Look,” Dick says, “you need to work with him, okay? No matter what. Slade likes to say shit to rattle you, but you _cannot_ let it get to you. He’ll be targeting you. Pretend that you hate me.”

“Even if it was someone I hated,” Kaldur’ahm says solemnly, “it would still be terrible.”

Dick’s face tries to hide pain.

Kaldur isn’t sure what to do. Managing some emotions is part of a leader’s business, but he’s not a trauma therapist. He has no idea what to do. Would touching him make it worse, if he’s feeling traumatized? Would not doing anything be cold?

“Talk to Black Canary,” Kaldur says. He can’t help him. It guts him but he can’t stand here and _help him_ , no matter how much pain he’s in.

Dick is _right_ , however much Kaldur hates to admit it. The mission comes first. Kaldur has to spend as little time away as possible. He has to trust the team that he helped build to take care of Nightwing, because he can’t do it himself.

It stings.

“Who was there?” Dick asks suddenly.

Kaldur remembers Slade’s horrible grin as clear as day. “Crock. Wilson, obviously. Black Manta. And me.”

Dick stares past him for a few seconds, eyes empty. Then they snap back to Kaldur.

“Thanks,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Kaldur responds, but it feels . . . weak. A useless, pathetic sentiment.

“I’ll be fine,” Dick insists.

“Talk to Black Canary,” Kaldur says again, but he feels like it’s washing over Nightwing and not registering at all.

Dick just adjusts his suit, turning as if to go.

“I’m glad you haven’t really defected, Aquaboy.”

Kaldur wants to roll his eyes at the old moniker. At the same time, he cracks a small, genuine smile. “As if.”


End file.
